The skin on De Sardet's face had started to peel. The salt and the sun left it red-raw and rough, like sandpaper. She had gone to put ointment on it once, but the Nauts had stopped her because the fats in her expensive face cream would have helped the sun to fry her face.

"Shed it, like a mask," Vasco had said, "the skin beneath will be stronger."

Kurt found that he liked the Naut captain. He found that he liked life at sea. It seemed… wholesome to him. Of course, eating something other than pickled vegetables, fish, and increasingly soft apples would have made it more wholesome, but the camaraderie of the crew and the way they worked in combination was inspiring.

He often caught De Sardet watching them, too – her eyes frequently falling on the captain. And after he'd noticed it, Kurt couldn't leave the thought alone.

"It's the tattoos," De Sardet confessed, after much teasing, "I want to know if they go all the way down…"

"Why would they? No one's going to see them under their shirts," Kurt replied, wondering where his indignant tone of voice was coming from, "Well, no one who's going to understand them, I suppose."

"I think it's terribly romantic," De Sardet went on, ignoring the petulance of his previous comment with skill borne of her legate training, "Imagine getting into bed with someone and finding more stories on their chest…"

It was – much to Kurt's unexpected relief – Constantin who first discovered how far down the tattoos went. And after she knew, De Sardet seemed less fascinated by the captain.

Kurt didn't see her go inside once that first week. She trained on deck with him every morning, and then sparred with anyone who cared to try. Kurt watched with pride – it was good for her. She was used to his moves – knew his strengths and weaknesses – but this way, she could learn how to counter an attack he wouldn't use, or a weapon he didn't wield.

And when she wasn't sparring, she was reading – treaties and notes on the native language. And a letter – well-thumbed and black along the folds. She kept that tucked in her jerkin pocket.

There was one day he caught her with it and she fumbled, blushing, to hide it from him. When he'd found a recruit with a love note – or Constantin – he'd been merciless, but there was something about the way she looked at him which made him hold back. Vulnerability, perhaps.

He nodded to her letter, "I'll mind my own business, don't worry."

"Did you leave anyone behind, Kurt?" she asked. It was his turn to blush at the question.

"Not really…"

"Not really?"

He thought of Elsie, briefly, "There was an… arrangement, rather than a romance. We were both lonely."

It was true, but he'd never articulated it before and found that doing so felt cheap and disloyal. He'd liked Elsie a great deal and she'd been kind. But that's really all there was amongst the Coin Guards – arrangements. You never knew where you might be posted to next, or who might not come back. It was better not to get attached. Those who did tended not to last long.

De Sardet was silent, as if waiting for him to continue, but he didn't feel like sharing any more. He nodded to where she'd slipped her note, "That from someone you left in Sérène?"

She shook her head, "No – I left no one in Sérène."

"In Thélème?"

"Not really…" she grinned as she mirrored his words, "But the legate there thought that it would look good if I was seen to be… friendly with some of the local nobility. Nothing scandalous but… suggestive. She selected two households and I met a young man from each one a few times. One became a dear friend. And the other…" she tapped her chest pocket, "The other was such a colossal prick that I ended up giving him a black eye on the day we left."

"And you keep a letter from him?"

"I do. He wrote to me shortly after I left Thélème and I received the missive just before I sat for that portrait. He told me that I was nothing – that I'd never manage a good political match. He called me all manner of names and wished all sorts of ill upon me," she was grinning as she spoke, "I nearly threw it in the fire, but then I realised what it was."

"Oh?" Kurt found himself unable to say any more. The idea of such a hateful thing directed at the smiling woman before him made his words catch in his throat.

"He was terrified of me – terrified that I had something he didn't. He knew somewhere deep down that he would be forced to marry for political gain – that his whole life would be spent trying to leech favour from his social betters," She walked to the edge of the boat and leaned against the railing, "My job gives me agency – Legate is a title I've earned, not one that I've married. It's not one I need to share with a future partner, nor is it one I need to set aside in favour of a 'better' name."

Kurt watched her. She looked – in that moment – so deeply satisfied and contented that he wanted nothing more than to drink her in.

"The further we travel from the old world, the more I feel the chains of it slipping away. And out here," she threw her arms wide and gestured the ocean and the sky, "out here there are no demands – no responsibilities. I feel as though I'm finally allowed to just… be."

He thought of her titles peeling from her, like the pink skin of her face – daughter, niece, lady…

Shed it - like a mask - the skin beneath will be stronger.